


strangers

by Mukuburd



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Dragoon Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Grief/Mourning, Hyur Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Misplaced Anger, Moving On, Paladin Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Pre-Relationship, Shadowbringers Role Quests (Final Fantasy XIV), Talking Amaro Friends, bereavement, drinking at sunset, is it an indirect kiss if they share the same bottle?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26938468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mukuburd/pseuds/Mukuburd
Summary: the Vengeful Lance and the Mournful Blade
Relationships: Granson/Warrior of Light (pre-relationship), Past Haurchefant/Warrior of Light
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	strangers

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hi this is my first time writing and finishing fic in earnest so this is still very new for me. I started writing this in March with the intent of being a one-shot, but I placed it on a backburner for many months and my plans for it eventually evolved into a multi-part story so let’s see how far I actually go with this! 
> 
> Some info about my WoL can be found at freelnc.carrd.co
> 
> Timeframe for this chapter is shortly after the lv78 rolequest and during the 78-79 MSQ.

_  
Dear fellow traveler under the moon_ _  
_ _I saw you standing in the shadows and your eyes were blue_ _  
_ _You put your hand out, opened the door_ _  
_ _You said, "Come with me, boy, I want to show you something more"_

\- “Dear Fellow Traveler” by Sea Wolf

* * *

A few paces in, she winced and placed a hand upon her midsection.

A seasoned warrior as she should be used to stinging wounds by now, and she had certainly become more and more tempered to the routine lacerations and blunt trauma. Alas, even the summers-old scar that marred her abdomen was still rarely prone to spells of pain; something she couldn’t retain the fine science the chirurgeons explained to her. All that Kite knew was to her chagrin, Marraco’s last laugh transcended both time _and_ worlds.

Furthermore, it was more insult than physical injury to contemplate the physiology of scars when dealing with old wounds of the emotional nature. She had certainly invited a distraction into her thought process, but not _this_ when she was so prone to make a metaphor of anything and everything. It was apparent to near everyone that Kite’s tendencies for sarcasm and dry humor surfaced when the gears in her head were ticking overtime, and she would do anything to stop them. However, the issue at hand was why she found herself in Il Mheg once more, transporting quarried clay and ore to Pla Enni as a favor for a particular Sul Oul. (Ever the Nu Mou, so insistent on making mortals _work_ for every single thing.)

“Are you alright, Kite?” Her amaro companion, Fletcher, stopped out of concern for his friend’s well being.

Kite stroked her abdomen as if it would will the pain away, and she debated whether to answer with a truth, half of one, or a simple reassurance. “Yeah, I just— my old wound’s acting up. It’ll pass.”

Except it wasn’t the only issue going on and no she’s really not okay but how would she even begin to _explain_ —

But even Fletcher, a former knight’s steed since before the Flood, once experienced the loss of a dear companion. Just like Granson did. Just like _she_ did.

The amaro craned his neck up and around for a reassuring glance at his friend then continued pace while the hyur idly stroked the beast’s shaggy feathers, head gears continuing to tick and drive her borderline irate as she struggled to rationalize this entire ordeal that led her to re-evaluate the traumatic incident from summers ago that completely changed her, for better or worse. Granted, she was able to finally find closure (or so she thought) and continue living her life in her beloved’s memory, but she never did so with a pinch of forgiveness to the one whose very hands had slain him before her eyes.

Perhaps it was too difficult to actually _forgive_ him, but the way things fell into place (and were evidently _still falling_ ) became more clear as time passed: the brunt of her vitriol and ire rested upon the former Heavens’ Ward knight, yet not so much the late Archbishop and regrettably not so much Lahabrea and and his ilk who pulled the strings in the background in the first place.

And who was she to so easily pardon Dikaio— _Branden_ for atrocities he had committed when he very clearly was not himself, yet in the same breath condemn The Very Reverend Archimandrite Ser Zephirin de Valhourdin who _himself_ was the victim of primal tempering and could not think- only act- to be used as a tool to make an attempt on her life which stole her beloved‘s instead?

Perhaps she never actually knew the true nature of the knight or whether his character truly warranted forgiveness. In the months prior to that dreadful evening, he was merely an acquaintance who she had spoken with on rare occasion by the grace of her high standing with House Fortemps and the Lord Commander. Seemed to be as nice a guy as the secondhand accounts she heard and maybe they could have been friends one day, although how much of that man was _himself_ at the time would remain a mystery.

What Kite definitely was certain of was a difficult and downright rotten reality to swallow that went against everything she had felt for the past years, and one that would leave a bitter aftertaste for what may as well be forever.

And on top of all that...

Kite had initially taken on the job to slay the Cardinal Virtue as another means for pocket change while putting to rest a terrible threat, not unlike something she grew up doing on the Source. However, the moment her client actually spoke of his personal stake in the matter, a most unfortunate tragedy not unlike her own, her entire demeanor changed and she drove herself headfirst into the affair. It was all too familiar a tale to her former self and even others she once knew, and none of those stories ended as nearly as romantic as the parable of Saint Reinette of the Vengeful Lance who Kite sought to emulate and was left in nothingness for.

But maybe, Kite thought, if she could pick up Granson from fully succumbing to his despair and they lay Branden to rest together, perhaps a relatively good ending could come of this, for once, and she will have finally averted another from straying too far down a self destructive path.

She didn’t know whether she was being selfish or selfless to involve herself in a relative stranger’s personal life like this, but before her was a golden opportunity to maybe complete her yearn for closure with absolute certainty this time. (And to be frank, poking her nose in others’ business was part of her job.)

And also before her was... _aha_.

Not too far downhill, she spotted a vague figure of dark attire and a hyuran ( _hume_ , rather) silhouette settled on a ledge with an impressive view of Longmirror Lake, and unless another mortal had ventured in unusually unscathed, this particular figure was, indeed, her client.

“Hold up, Fletcher.” She dismounted the amaro as soon as the beast paused. “Granson’s over there and I wanna check up on him. You can continue on without me.” She reached up to cup and pat the snout of her companion. “Tell Sul Oul I’ll be there in a while.”

“Just call if you need me.” Unburdened of the weight of a rider in addition to the heavy cargo he carried, Fletcher unfolded his wings and took off. Kite gave a faint smile towards her companion then made her way downhill.

Her relationship with Granson was predominantly business and only could be; the bounty hunter’s heart was walled off and _painfully_ , understandably so. Even then, the amount of rigid, calculating talks of their next movement over a pint at the Wandering Stairs and all the deflected attempts she took to reach through to him had never deterred her, for she herself was once a beast with bared fangs driven into a corner by grief. (Although, gods, fate wasn’t so downright _cruel_ as to force her to slay her own beloved, no matter how much she faulted herself for being in the position she was on that day.) And now, as his vengeful resolve and sense of purpose crumbled, she could maybe finally, _hopefully_ reach through.

“You’re not a leafman yet,” Kite remarked dryly, seizing the man’s attention as she approached. “Good.”

“Sinner…? Why’re you even here when your business is in Kholusia?”

“I’m just passing through,” the hyur answered, “Got a mining gig for the Nu Mou and was about to turn in for my earnings ‘n head back to my gang. You know, pocket change.” She tilted her head to the side and continued gazing downward. “They must be doing wonders to keep you in a single piece if you’re so intent on staying here ‘til the time comes.”

The hume exhaled a sigh of resignation. “Not the most ideal hosts I’d ask for, but I haven’t the patience for pixie games or whatever horror I hear the fuath can invoke. Not that I’m too fussed with earning my keep, but Sul Oul’s given me quite the odd tasks.”

“Been to Wolekdorf yet?” Kite gestured eastward towards the aetheryte that glowed among the ruins. “The amaro there could keep you safe and they’re good for conversation.”

All Granson could do was raise an eyebrow as he looked up to Kite in disbelief. “ _Conversation…_? The hell are you on about?”

The hyur shrugged and plopped down next to the hume to fidget with the bag of cargo she carried. “Just say hello and give ‘em ear scritches and they’re the only other hospitable company in this… this...” _Hellscape_ was far too much of an exaggeration, yet her initial experience in the realm was a far cry from _remotely pleasant_. “Place.” That would suffice. Kite’s expression remained entirely neutral, perhaps a touch deadpan despite her genuine intentions, as she yanked a tin flask out, uncorked it, and took a swig.

“Sinner, you’re suggesting I have a thoughtful conversation with an _animal_?”

“They’re good amaro.” Kite’s vision was not focused on Granson, but rather to the scenery before them. Once more she sipped from the flask then moved it towards the other’s direction, silently offering him a drink.

After a brief pause of indecision, Granson accepted the flask to sample the contents for himself. The semi-sweet concoction tasted of honey combined with floral notes, and if only Kite were actually _looking_ at him, she would have seen the only trace of contentment Granson would have ever shown those days. “‘S good,” he conceded, shoving the flask back towards the hyur. “What is it?”

Kite broke into a wistful smile as she took the bottle to partake once more. “Fullflower mead, a product of my homeland.” She didn’t let on where said home was or how she smuggled the liquor across worlds; she simply exuded a shallow sigh as she stared aimlessly to the receding sun.

She tilted her head upward to take another gulp of mead with a slight shiver to her grip before returning her gaze to the lorikeets dotting the horizon and the sunset tinged castle spires. It took one, perhaps two moments for her to exhale a deep breath and continue speaking. “There’s this old tale I’ve been thinkin’ about lately; a story of a spearwoman and a dragon. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”

“Sure doesn’t ring a bell.”

The hyur simply shrugged and shoved the flask back towards Granson. She quietly mumbled “Keep it,” then proceeded to spin the tale. “There’s a legend in my homeland,” she began, “A dragon slew the beloved of a spearwoman named Reinette and she vowed revenge right then and there. Took her a while to track it down and once she finally found it, she slayed her foe and cast her lance aside on the spot, never to fight again. She took to charity and was lauded for her feats, eventually being elevated to sainthood and bestowed the title of the Vengeful Lance.” She cracked a solemn smile. “Romantic, isn’t it?”

“I hate faerie tales.”

Kite burst out into laughter, half genuine, half dreading to recall the next part. “There’s even more to it. Some centuries later, a plucky lancer fell in love with a knight commander of a garrison. They vowed to end the nation’s thousand year war with their comrades and wed once all was said and done.”

The man downed the remainder of the mead before humming in acknowledgement and bewilderment. “Sounds like a tall order to end a conflict just like that.”

A pause settled in as the shieldbearer debated her usage of words and details and whether or not she could actually continue.

“And _how it was_. One evening, they pursued the culprit prolonging the war, the archbishop who ruled the nation. They had him cornered and the lancer dashed ahead, not realizing one of the archbishop’s men, twisted and enthralled by foul magicks, had targeted her with a spear of light. The knight- her beloved- took notice and swiftly placed himself between her and the bolt, holding it back with his shield with all his might. Dashing as he was deflecting it, however, his shield gave out and shattered, thus the bolt struck him down.

“The lancer was devastated as she watched her beloved murdered before her eyes. She shut herself off from the world and honed her technique day after day, seeking to become the second incarnation of Reinette herself while consumed by dreams of spilling the blood of the one who spilled her beloved’s. She soon seized the opportunity to give chase to the men and a battle ensued, draconic might versus dark magicks. By the end, she had run her lance clean through her lover’s killer and immediately dropped her weapon to abandon it, fulfilling the legend she sought to emulate and adopting the title for herself.

“Yet she had naught left to live for after that. Her vengeance didn’t bring her love back, and the glorious tale she admired had betrayed her with empty promises of closure that never came. But furthermore, she paid no mind that the man who made an attempt on her life was a thrall of the archbishop himself, a mindless puppet not unlike what Branden had become. All she cared was to curse his name forevermore even after she felled him.”

“So the valorous tale of revenge becomes a cautionary one.”

“There’s more such tales of vengeance I could recall that never ended in glory: perhaps, the dragon who orchestrated a thousand year war to avenge his brood sister’s murder at the hands of man. The dragon slayer who had also lost family to that selfsame dragon and set out to live his entire life locked in a circle of malice, only to become a hate-ridden vessel for the wyrm’s possession.” Kite let out a sharp sigh, eye still unable to fixate as she looked up to the gentle twinkle of stars among the darkening fields of violet above. “Another dragon lives her days in a self imposed exile resulting from a false promise of returning her murdered beloved back to life, which instead summoned a simulacrum fueled by rage and grief. Fantastical stuff.” _And yet, true,_ she added in her thoughts.

“Fond of these dragons you talk about, are you?”

“Absolutely.”

The hyur’s visible eye evoked a vacant gaze as she aimlessly stared onwards to Longmirror Lake, her throat growing weary from talking and holding back a sob. The hume had simply shut his eyes to reflect. “Kinda says two different outcomes could come of this, but moreso the unhappy one. I just- I’ll never find peace to begin with as long as Dikaiosyne lurks among us.”

“It’s all in how you go about it.” The hyur patted Granson on the back, then the shoulder, before suddenly putting weight upon him as a support to lift herself up. “Continue to pursue this hunt for Branden and the people of Wright. For _Milinda_ , in the way she would want you to and not as the second Vengeful Lance did.”

“Hurts like hell to think about,” Granson looked upward and watched as his fellow hunter turned and began to walk off. “But I’ll think about it.”

“Good. I won’t let you hear the end of it if I come back to your whinging again.”

And thus Kite ventured off northward, disappearing as she climbed the hill. Granson fumbled with the bottle he had been bestowed and stored it in a pocket for safekeeping as he looked upwards to the risen moon and flood of stars above. “Heh. It’s a deal.”

* * *

It still hurt, and she didn’t even know if it was the scar or the heart.

At least she didn’t collapse into a blubbering mess as she was wont to, she thought, but Granson nailed it. It sucks, it hurts like hell, no amount of moving on completely erases the pain of being severed from her beloved.

And yet, maybe it was okay to continue to mourn several summers after that day as long as it didn’t consume her. Perhaps to move on was not to completely purge oneself of grief, but rather to reconcile with the truth and continue to live life with a head held high.

The entrance to Pla Enni was difficult to miss even as the sunless sea engulfed the sky. The glowing pillars of crystal formations that adorned the mountainside illuminated with ample light for Kite to make her way through the tunnel that led to the bioluminescent fungi and the Nu Mou that inhabited them. The hunter looked around, trying as she might to distinguish between the faefolk of the cavern or even spot her amaro companion before giving up spectacularly. “Fletcher, Sul Oul, I’m here.”

Kite had spoken too soon, just barely making out the shape of a dark feathered amaro amongst the dim light. Fletcher soon took notice of her approach. “Kite! We’re over here.”

Sul Oul was difficult to single out and was hunched over more than usual to inspect a chunk of clay sampled from one of Fletcher’s saddlebags. They looked upwards to the hyur. “Thank you for your endeavors in procuring this.” Kite nodded in acknowledgement and began to work on unloading the mineral cargo. “Fletcher told me you encountered Granson.”

“I happened to run into him on the way back here, so I’ve no need of knowing where you’ve been hiding him after all.” Kite dropped the heavy burlap sacks and nudged them towards the Nu Mou. “Take it anyways.”

The Nu Mou tradition of equivalent exchange was more or less a hassle to follow to the letter, and in terms of intangible favors, nigh difficult. Still, it hopefully wouldn’t hurt to counter with a mortal’s tradition of gift giving.

“But also I think… I think…” Kite’s voice faltered as her eyes diverted elsewhere, “Uncovering the truth of Branden helped me let go of an old demon of my own.”

“You never spoke much of yourself in your time here. I shall listen.”

“The man who struck down my own beloved was not himself at that moment, either,” She bowed her head, eyes closed and struggling to not lose her bearings once more. “I didn’t want to believe it. All I cared about at the time was slaying him for what he’d done and not for the fact he was a thrall robbed of his will.”

“I see…” Sul Oul’s droopy gaze somewhat lit up as it dawned upon them. “Since the moment you first arrived, I had recognized a certain _spark_ in your gaze every time you tried to concern yourself with Granson.”

Kite gave a solemn nod and silently counted on her right hand. “We’re alike, in a sense”

Granson, Nidhogg, Estinien, Tiamat… _her own self_.

“It’s like looking into a mirror and seeing a reflection of my former self and even others around me. I personally lost myself in a delusion by seeking to emulate a vengeful heroine and was left a mere husk of who I was for it.” Kite then confidently gazed back to the fae. “I can’t stand to see another fall and fester in this cycle.”

“To lose a loved one to such a hand dealt by fate is a fate much cruel. And yet, as far down as you delved, no matter how long you might have endured, you have still risen above your plight with grace and eyes set to the future.” The Nu Mou, stoic as they were, evoked a faint smile. “It is most honorable that you would fight to lift another from that despair.”

Reflecting on the approving wisdom of the fae, Kite could only falter once more and her tears flowed in earnest. And yet, the warmest smile she ever evoked during her time on the First was upon her face, dimly illuminated by the surrounding fungi. It took some time to regain her bearings, but she managed to speak up once more.

“Anyways, if you _really_ insist on an equal exchange, I do have quite the terms in mind. I’ll be taking my leave from here again to to join my friends in Kholusia. May not be snooping ‘round these parts for the time being, so if you’ve the means, just let me know when Granson is ready to confront Dikaiosyne.”

As she spoke those words, Sul Oul took note of the flicker of resolve in her eyes as it fizzled into puzzlement.

“You… _can_ do that, right? Use a little fae spell to hone in on me and deliver a message?” She tilted her head. “Do you use linkpearls by any chance?”

Sul Oul sighed at the hyur’s shift in demeanor from determination to sheer cluelessness. “I regret to say I’ve no knowledge of what you speak of for the latter,” They lifted a fistful of the clay. “but there certainly is a way, and the very reason I had you quarry this. Come with me and I shall teach you how to create a porxie.”


End file.
